


Building Ladders to the Stars

by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Living Together, M/M, Multi, Potentially Unsanitary Piercing Practices, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Frustration, Shopping Malls, high school sweethearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 08:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: Stan has never had to deal with such a bunch of horndogs in his life, and he is, regrettably, including himself in that bunch of horndogs. He wouldn't have expected that he'd find the answer to his problems in a Hot Topic, but life is full of surprises.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 130
Collections: Poly Losers Club Fic Exchange





	Building Ladders to the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abusemesoftly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abusemesoftly/gifts).

> written as part of the poly losers fic exchange on tumblr. 
> 
> this was written for iwantyourbloodonmylips! i hope you like it!
> 
> in writing this fic, i had to do a lot more research into claire's piercing practices than i ever thought i would. they also might (i couldn't find hard and fast info about this) not pierce one ear at a time as a practice, but this is fanfiction, so they do in this universe.

Stan has never had to deal with such a bunch of horndogs in his life, and he is, regrettably, including himself in that bunch of horndogs.

It didn’t start out quite this badly. At first, it was almost sweet. Hand holding, falling asleep on each other at slumber parties that their parents had no idea were illicit gatherings. It was fun, but mostly innocuous. 

It’s still fun, but the innocuousness is fading faster and faster every day.

It’s probably Richie’s fault. Stan loves him to death, but there’s only so many jokes a person can hear about sucking dicks before said person starts to _think_ about that sort of thing. And Richie talks about sucking dicks a _lot_.

Stan’s noticed the others weakening, too. They hadn’t decided to remain celibate or anything, it’s just… they had decided to wait until they could all be together before they consummated their relationship as such, and there’s no way for seven people to quietly have sex when their parents are home.

Sure, they’re all moved out now, in a house of their own, adults (thinking of himself as an adult makes Stan’s insides squirm, but it’s true, technically) and everything. In the few weeks since their move, Stan’s been expecting something to happen, feeling the tension build and build to new heights, watched Bill and Mike stare at each other’s mouths for so long that it seemed like they would devour each other whole, but… nothing.

Well, not nothing. The other night, Richie and Eddie had been feeling each other up on the couch during a movie and Stan had thought that maybe this would be it. They were all there, Richie had lost his shirt at some point, Eddie was making some noises that implied that he was seriously interested in the proceedings developing further—

—and then nothing. Their kisses had gentled, gropes became pets, and Richie nodded off against the giant hickey he’d made on Eddie’s neck.

Stan is so sexually frustrated that he thinks he might explode. In more ways than one.

He knows he’ll never say anything to prompt a discussion on the topic, of course. It’s just not in him to bring up things like that. He’ll die of sexual frustration before he looks Richie Tozier in the eye and asks a sincere question about whether or not they’re ever going to fuck.

And he still does want it to be all of them. Maybe it’ll happen naturally, like their relationship did. It’s not like they had sat down and had a conversation about that at any point. One day, Stan noticed that he was holding Richie’s hand absentmindedly, toying with one of the near-comical amount of rings that Richie had started wearing his sophomore year. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. Just, Richie’s hand was there, and they were watching an episode of The Golden Girls, and Stan’s hands got fidgety sometimes, and Richie’s hand was there. 

Richie didn’t say anything gross to him about it, either, which was a rarity. Stan had never noticed how pretty Richie’s hands were before then, but he noticed them a lot afterward – whenever Richie would twirl a drumstick between long, delicate fingers or switch one chunky silver ring from one finger to another.

(Richie didn’t even play the drums, or any instrument. He just carried a drumstick around because he thought it made him look cooler, and when his hair was at its longest, he could stick his hair in a bun and use the drumstick to hold it together. God, Stan truly, truly detests him in the most adoring way possible.)

And then one day, Stan had fallen asleep at a party at Mike’s, because Mike always had his parties out back in the barn, and Stan had taken his allergy medication to combat the sheer amount of hay he’d be basically snorting the whole time, and when he’d groggily woken up an hour later, his face had been smashed against Bill’s shoulder, and Bill’s arm had been around him, and he’d smelled like Bill always did, like Old Spice, like safety, like aftershave, like family. Stan had shoved his face farther into the collar of Bill’s jacket, and Bill had laughed, quietly, and held him closer.

He’d gotten sick a few weeks later, and stayed home from school, and Bev had snuck through his window with soup that Eddie had made but couldn’t get out of the house to deliver. She’d kissed him on the cheek with smooth chapsticked lips and Stan had croaked a warning that she was going to get sick, but she just grinned sideways at him and pulled his comforter higher.

Stan had woken up a few hours later, and Bev and Ben had been playing Rummy on the floor of his room. He remembers blearily asking if he could have a glass of water, and they’d nearly tripped over each other fighting to be the first to get it. He’d fallen asleep before they could actually bring it to him.

It’s a thousand tiny, monumental moments that took place over months and years, and he doesn’t think they ever truly discussed it, but they all know the score these days. And if this had somehow managed to happen, then so will the rest of it. And they won’t ever have to talk about it at all.

Hopefully.

It’s a rare day that all of them can be home at the same time. Between jobs and school or both, Stan usually has to guess which of his (partners? romantic friends?) Losers will be home at any given time. Today, though, it seems they’re all present and accounted for.

And, in certain cases, incredibly bored.

“I’m bored,” Richie announces for the twelfth time, heaving the most beleaguered sigh Stan has ever heard. Richie kicks the beanbag chair that Mike is relaxing in and huffs. “I’m bored,” he repeats.

“We heard you the first time,” Bev replies from the other end of the couch where Eddie is painstakingly painting her toenails bright purple. She gives Richie a warning look when he seems geared up for a playful kick in their direction instead. “Try it and I’ll bite you,” she warns.

Richie grins, a baring of his teeth that’s so charged it makes the hair on Stan’s forearms stand up. “Promise?”

It’s things like this that make Stan think that this unintentional celibacy can’t last forever. There’s only so long that seven pent-up nineteen-year-olds can live in a house together before tab A goes into slot B, or some variation thereof.

“No flirting while I’m working,” Eddie says without looking away from Beverly’s toenails. “I’ve got enough to focus on without having to referee your mating rituals right now, okay? This is delicate work.”

“But I’m bored,” Richie whines again. He jumps when Mike abruptly closes the book that he’s been reading, a loud clap of pages that makes Stan wince and Eddie squawk with discontent.

“We gotta go do something,” Mike announces. Bill looks up from his writing desk, a smear of blue ink on his cheek, frowning.

“We d-do?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yes,” Mike insists. He slots his bookmark into place. “We’re never all together, and we’re wasting our time inside. We’re going stir crazy.”

“Some of us more than others,” Bev mutters, sliding a sideways glance at Richie, who sticks his tongue out at her.

“My point,” says Mike. He nods, like that was the deciding factor. “We should go somewhere.”

“I’m poor,” says Richie. He doesn’t look uninterested, though, twisting on the couch to look at Mike with his chin in his hand. “Let’s keep that in mind, please.”

“Okay, so something that doesn’t cost a ton,” says Ben from his position on the floor, leaning against the couch below Richie. He’s slowly rolling a bottle of black nail polish between his hands. “Mike’s right, we should go out and do something.”

“We could play m-mini golf,” suggests Bill, visibly warming to the idea. He even unclicks his pen. 

“Why was that the first thing that came to your mind?” Bev asks, tilting her head at him with an indulgent smile. 

Bill smiles back, besotted. “I l-like mini golf,” he says. “It’s the r-right height for E-Eddie.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Richie too much,” Eddie says, gently painting on a clear top coat of nail polish. “And also, fuck you.”

“We could just go to the mall,” Stan interjects quietly, hoping to prevent another series of volleying quips. He feels a little self-conscious when the attention in the room swings around to him. He’s used to kind of coasting along in the background, and it’s easy to do with so many… assertive personalities in this relationship. He never feels ignored, or undervalued – it’s just that sometimes he likes to have the ability to listen rather than be listened to.

Mike smiles at him, sunshine-bright, and Stan wants to flush under the consideration of it.

“Stan the man with the plan,” says Richie, waggling a hand at Ben until he sighs and captures Richie’s fidgety digits. “I love laughing at poorly-dressed eighth graders. Sounds like a blast.”

“Are you gonna hold still so I can do this?” Ben asks, untwisting the cap on the polish with a warning look up at Richie through his bangs. “Or are you gonna mess them up immediately like you did last time?”

Richie bats his eyelashes at Ben, making a show of holding his hand very still. “Cross my heart, Your Honor,” he says solemnly.

Thirty seconds after they all pile through the automatic doors of the mall, Richie says, “Fuck, I chipped my nail polish.”

“Literally on what, oh my god,” says Bev, rolling her eyes and twisting to walk backwards so that she can look at Richie. This, unfortunately, means that Stan has to scramble to also walk backwards, because Bev is holding his hand at the time.

“It’s okay, R-Rich,” says Bill. He gives Richie an encouraging smile. “B-Black nail polish is s-s’posed to chip a little. Looks c-c-cool.”

Richie puffs himself up a little. “That’s a point well made, Big Bill,” he says. He stands up a little straighter and grabs Bill’s hand even though Bill is already holding Mike’s.

“Where do we want to go first?” Ben asks, perusing the directory and map on a pillar directly in front of the entrance. “We’re in the food court now, obviously.”

“Let’s look at this fancy jewelry place,” says Richie immediately.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause it’s right here,” says Eddie. He is also scanning the directory with a critical eye. “If we want to minimize time traversing covered ground, we’ll have to plan accordingly now.”

“Look, motherfucker, I like engagement rings,” Richie replies. He’s not even paying attention anymore, goggling as a chef behind the Japanese noodle counter chops vegetables so quickly his hands are a blur. “I also want to go to Hot Topic. Otherwise I’m wasting my nail polish on people who don’t understand me.”

Eddie huffs loudly, as he’d already been halfway through designing an itinerary. His and Ben’s heads are ducked together, fingers pointing at various places on the map.

“I need a new bra,” says Bev, tipping her chin up as if in challenge. “Who’s coming with me?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Ben clears his throat.

“I’ll go,” he says, and Eddie, peeking impatiently up from his conference with the directory, waves a hand to indicate that he will, too.

“Okay, let’s swap.” Bev lifts Stan’s hand and kisses the back of it before letting it go, linking hands with Ben on one side and Eddie on the other and pulling them along with her. “Make this plan walking, Edward, I’m a very busy lady.” 

Eddie’s half-hearted protests fade into the distance, and Richie claps once.

“Okay! Hot Topic it is! Thanks to everyone for your input, but, unfortunately, I’m overruling you all because I want to get shorts with pentagrams on the ass cheeks.”

Stan sighs, and holds out his hand hopefully until Mike takes it, giving him another one of those sunshine smiles. 

“You know,” says Richie, leading them unerringly and without even glancing at the map toward the Hot Topic in the mall, “I think we should all start wearing black lipstick. Every single one of us. Every time we go out, we all put on black lipstick.”

“Sure, R-Rich,” Bill says. He’s looking at Richie indulgently even as they duck through the door of the shop. “I want mine to be sh-shiny, though.”

“Ugh, you think you want it to be shiny, but then you get your hair stuck in your fucking lipstick and it’s a nightmare,” Richie dismisses. He twirls from rack to rack, display to display, the others following obediently. On occasion, Stan will stop to admire an outfit or two on displays that he likes in theory but would never wear in a million years, but they all know that this is an exercise in letting Richie have his fun.

“How mad would you all get if I bought these?” Richie demands to know as he exits the dressing room wearing pants that look six sizes too big and have several straps and chains crisscrossing between the legs.

“That depends on how much you jingle when you walk, I think,” says Mike, eyeing a t-shirt decorated with a ribcage that has flowers twining through the bones.

Richie saunters forward, and the chains swish against his legs.

“Eddie’s gonna h-hate those,” says Bill, but he says it like he already knows that isn’t a discouragement. “They’re a s-safety hazard.”

“Most good fashion is,” says Richie, twisting at the waist to make his zippered pockets jingle. “I’m wearing these for the rest of my life.”

“That’s the only way you’ll be able to justify the cost,” says Mike, who’s clearly glimpsed the price tag secured to the waist of the pants. 

“I thought you said you didn’t have any money,” Stan says, raising his voice so that Richie can hear him as he disappears into the dressing room once more.

“I always have money for good pants,” says Richie over the sound of various clacking and swishing noises. “Do you think they would let me wear these out? The pants I was wearing seem so bourgeoisie now.”

They do, in fact, let Richie wear the pants out of the store, but Stan thinks it probably has more to do with the smiles and winks Richie kept tossing at the cashier than it does store policy.

“The others are still at the bra store, wherever that is,” says Mike, tapping on his phone, probably to Ben. He’s carrying a Hot Topic bag, too, because Bill and Stan had bullied him into getting the shirt he obviously wanted. “We have a little more time to kill if anyone has anywhere else they want to go.”

“I have a place I gotta stop by, but I chose the first stop, so I’m open to suggestions,” says Richie, a bounce in his step that makes his pants swish enticingly.

They’re ridiculous, and Stan knows that in theory, but he can’t lie that there’s something… there’s something about them. The confidence they clearly give Richie, or the way they cinch tightly on his waist, emphasizing how slender he is, or maybe Stan has just always been attracted to people who can embody things he could never allow himself to be.

Bill suggests the comic book store, and Richie shifts gears with an unwavering ability to topic jump. He’s off on a tangent about the newest Spider-Man run with Bill not far behind him. Stan barely understands half of it, the way they keep talking over each other, excitement worsening Bill’s stammer.

The comic book store is fun. Stan doesn’t read a ton of comics himself – he read a ton of them when he was younger, but grew out of it in a way the others haven’t – but he still likes to look at the covers and flick through older copies, smelling the years on them like flipping through record shop crates.

“Okay,” Richie announces once they leave. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Stan asks, volunteering when nobody else seems brave enough to do so.

“Time to exact Plan Gay Ear,” says Richie, pivoting to march in some direction to some place known only to him.

“Plan w-what?” Stan hears Bill whisper to Mike. Mike shrugs.

“Oh,” says Stan when he spies the sign they appear to be walking toward. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Richie says with relish. He gestures expansively at the glowing neon blue letters above the entryway.

“Claire’s? Why are we at a store for seven-year-old girls?” Mike asks suspiciously, before it must click for him as well. “Oh, Richie, no.”

“Richie _yes_,” insists Richie. He swishes to the counter, grinning at the girl behind it who looks concerned, then surprised, then agreeable.

“Eddie is going to murder you for _real_,” Stan tells Richie when he comes back to the entrance. “They’re never going to find your body.”

“He’ll get over it,” says Richie. He hops up into the metal chair and folds his hands in his lap. “I’m a grown man and I can get my ear pierced if I want.”

The girl from the counter (Charlotte, her nametag reads) approached with a calming smile and peppy attitude. She’s certainly nice enough, but it won’t protect her from Eddie’s wrath if she hasn’t properly sanitized all of her equipment.

“Oh, my god,” Mike whispers as they all watch, entranced, when the needle pushes through Richie’s right earlobe. A tiny daisy twinkles there after a second, nearly blinding under the harsh fluorescents.

“Does it look good?” Richie demands to know, wriggling in his seat even as Charlotte is trying to give him aftercare advice. “How adorable am I?”

“You d-didn’t need an earring for th-that, Trashmouth,” says Bill, ever the sweetheart. Richie beams at him and Bill actually looks a little dazed from the power of it.

“Aw, gee, thanks, Bill,” Richie replies. He ducks to look at himself in the mirror on the table. “That looks sick,” he says. He grins at Charlotte, and she looks a little dazed, too.

Stan’s not a very jealous person, couldn’t be, considering their situation, but he finds himself feeling slightly put out by that. “I like it,” he says, purely to get Richie’s attention back on him. The full power of Richie’s smile is, indeed, startling to behold.

“What do you like?” asks Eddie’s voice, and it takes them all a moment to realize that this means that Eddie is _there_. Mike looks at his phone like it’s betrayed him even though he must have been the one who sent the text that told the others where they were.

Stan considers throwing himself in front of Richie like a man on a grenade, but it’s too late. There are storm clouds darkening Eddie’s forehead, even as Bev squeaks, delighted.

“Oh my god, it’s darling!” she exclaims, darting over to admire Richie’s ear. “And you got the gay ear!”

“Did you,” Eddie says in a whisper that cracks through the air like a shout, “get your ear pierced at this establishment?”

“I’m gonna take my left one out so we can match!” says Bev, ignoring the building inferno that is Eddie Kaspbrak directly to her right. 

“Richie!” Eddie snaps, his voice building in volume.

“I mean, you weren’t here, so you can’t prove that it happened here,” Richie reasons. His brow looks sweaty even as he stands to pay the poor piercer.

“Richie!” Eddie says again, even louder. “I _cannot believe_—"

“Hold on, Eds, I gotta pay for this,” says Richie, scurrying off toward the register. Charlotte, bewildered, follows. After a moment, Eddie, infuriated, does so as well.

“I have told you a _thousand times_ about the danger of places like this, Richie!” Eddie exclaims. “They barely have permits and their technicians aren’t even really licensed, they clean their tools with _water_, essentially, Richie! Have you even heard of Barbicide?” he demands to know of the perplexed specialist.

“I—”

“I’m gonna need to see your license,” says Eddie, whipping open the zipper of his fanny pack and retrieving a pair of glasses. “And the permit for this store, legalizing your use of this equipment.”

“He’s fine,” Richie assures Charlotte, accepting his receipt with a weak smile. “He’s just a little overcautious.”

“Overcautious!” Eddie’s voice rises an octave. “When you get sepsis in your earlobe and your goddamn ear falls off, you’re not going to think I was overcautious!” Eddie doesn’t seem to notice that Richie is gently steering him toward the door.

“I’m not gonna get sepsis in my earlobe, Eds, come on,” says Richie. He has a hand placed in the middle of Eddie’s back as Eddie continues to talk a mile a minute. 

Stan finds himself, yet again, distracted by Richie’s fingers. Mike squeezes his hand as Bev jumps into the argument, solidly on Richie’s side of it. When Stan looks at him, Mike mouths, ‘you okay?’

He nods, but in truth, he feels a little like he’s been walloped upside the head. There’s something about the way Richie’s hand looks on Eddie’s back – long-fingered and pale, possessive, almost, that makes Stan’s insides squirm in a way he kind of likes. And Richie’s still wearing those pants, and Eddie’s gotten all flushed in the face, angry but beautiful with it, and Mike’s hand is big and warm in Stan’s, and he… really wishes they weren’t at the mall anymore.

“Maybe we should head home,” Mike suggests. Stan doesn’t know if it’s for his own benefit or not, but he appreciates it nonetheless. That’s Mike, though. He always knows what you need.

They split up again to take their two cars back, Richie and Eddie still arguing as they get into the backseat of Bill’s car. Stan is very grateful to get into Ben’s, instead, though he offers Bill an apologetic look when he looks wistfully in their direction.

It’s warm and comfortable in the backseat of Ben’s car, and the sound of he and Bev chatting in the front seat makes it easy for Stan to relax. He sighs, pleased, leaning against Mike’s shoulder. It shakes a little when Mike laughs.

“You’re being clingier than normal,” he says into Stan’s ear. Before Stan can even consider moving back, Mike curls an arm around him. “I like it,” he murmurs. It makes warmth pool like a liquid in the pit of Stan’s stomach. He kisses Mike because he can’t think of a reason not to.

It’s never unpleasant to kiss any of his partners, but this feels different right from the start. Mike is hot to the touch and so _close_, tucked so tightly against Stan that he can feel Mike’s muscles shift underneath his shirt when he moves.

“Oh,” Mike murmurs into his mouth, his lips smooth, clinging to Stan’s. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stan whispers back, though he couldn’t say what he was saying yes to if pressed. Yes to everything. Yes to this, to Mike, to this feeling spreading through his limbs.

Mike’s other hand settles at the base of Stan’s neck, his fingers petting the soft fuzz there from the last time he and Richie had gotten drunk on sangria and decided it would be a great idea to try to give Stan an undercut. It makes a shiver roll down Stan’s spine, makes his mouth fall open a little. That’s a whole different ballpark, is open-mouthed kissing. It makes Stan regret putting on a seatbelt, which is a feeling he’s never had in his life. It also makes him wish the others were there, watching, touching, experiencing this like he is.

“What’s gotten into you?” Mike asks. Stan isn’t used to people asking questions into his mouth. It’s weird. It’s nice. It’s new. “I’m not complaining,” he adds, a quiet reassurance, and Stan can’t help but smile.

“Richie has fingers,” he tries to explain. He’s a little dizzy, so that may not be the infallible reasoning he wants it to be.

“He sure fuckin’ does,” says Bev, and Stan’s thoughts clear enough that he remembers that Bev is _there_, and Ben is there, and now all he needs is the other three and he’ll have his wish granted.

“Perv,” says Mike affectionately, and Stan feels a light squeeze on his knee from a smaller hand than Mike’s.

“You love it.” There’s a smokiness to Bev’s voice that makes it hard for Stan to swallow. “But Ben’s gonna crash if you two don’t cool it until we get home.”

“Can confirm.” Ben does sound a little strained, and it makes Stan flush with either embarrassment or accomplishment.

It’s hard not to pick up right where they left off, waiting on a precipice that feels like it could go on forever. Stan keeps tilting toward Mike when they run over patches in the road, and it’s hard not to just let himself kiss him, roll into it with the kinetic energy that pushes them together.

They pull into their driveway right in front of Bill’s car, and the fresh air on Stan’s face cools his burning cheeks when Mike opens the door. 

“Whoa,” Richie says as he watches them pile out of the car, sharp eyes narrowed curiously. “You guys had a very different car ride from us.”

Behind him, Eddie says, “and don’t think that I didn’t notice the fucking trip hazard you’re wearing on your legs, we haven’t even gotten to that yet! According to the STF criteria from the HSA, something left as an obstacle in a walkway violates so many safety regulations, I can’t even list them all and you’re wearing a walkway obstacle like it’s a fucking fashion statement—"

“Yeah, Stan and Mike started screwing in the backseat. Ben almost hit a mailbox,” says Bev with apparent joy. Even Eddie shuts up at that.

Stan’s cheeks warm again as the others look at him. Mike reaches over to hold his hand again, which helps, and Richie’s earring glitters in the sunlight, which doesn’t. It does, however, remind Stan of what he’d said earlier, in the car, kiss-dazed, about Richie’s fingers.

“Really,” says Richie. It’s not a question as much as it is a confirmation.

“Mhm.” Bev is grinning at Stan. “Stan’s got some moves I didn’t expect out of him.”

Richie is practically leering now. “This, I gotta see.” He leans back against Bill’s car, folding his arms across his chest. His nail polish is chipped on all of his fingers now, and when he tilts his head like a challenge to Stan, it makes something trip into place in Stan’s brain. 

“Okay,” he says. He turns to Mike, gives him a little sideways smile, and leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth before he lets go of his hand. 

It only takes three or four steps to get to Richie, and by the third one, there’s a smile spreading across Richie’s face, a glint in his eye, and he meets Stan’s kiss halfway.

It’s not like Stan hasn’t ever kissed Richie. Frankly, Richie trades kisses like hellos. Every time he passes by one of them on the couch, or in the kitchen, or literally standing still at any point in time, it’s a risk that he’ll grab one of their faces and kiss them. Stan used to find it nerve-wracking. Now, it’s just another thing he loves about Richie.

Usually, though, Richie’s kisses are quick, fleeting things, unless he’s got some time to kill, which he does now, clearly. He doesn’t hesitate to pull Stan against him, one hand on his waist, the other sliding up his back, pulling his shirt out of the waist of his pants, shoving into his hair in order to tilt his head the way that he wants it.

Stan can’t help but release a punched-out sigh, one that Richie breathes in. Richie’s teeth pinch Stan’s bottom lip hard enough that he actually makes a noise, a bitten-off whine that he would be embarrassed about if he had time to be. 

Heaved against Richie like this, it’s easy to sling his arms around Richie’s neck, pull him impossibly closer, feel each of Richie’s fingers where they curl around his bared hip like Stan belongs to him. Which he does, of course, belongs to all of them, and they to him.

When Stan pulls back, has to, in order to breathe, Richie’s glasses are crooked, and the right lens is fogged up at the bottom where it was smashed against Stan’s face. It’s so quiet now that the only things Stan can hear are Richie’s breathing, his own heartbeat, and a bird twittering somewhere in the distance. Some kind of finch, he notes absently.

“We gotta go inside,” Richie murmurs, pressing his forehead to Stan’s, running his thumb along the edge of Stan’s jaw. “Like, right now, or I’m gonna have to suck your dick on our front porch.”

Stan _squeaks_. That’s the only word for it. Richie laughs at him, but in the way that Richie usually does, where you’re in on the joke with him and just don’t know it yet. It’s not kind, exactly. Mostly, right now, it’s intolerably hot when Stan is already warm enough.

“That’s unsanitary,” says Eddie weakly, his voice shakier than it was before, and Stan chances a glance to his side, finds Eddie staring at the pair of them, bright-eyed, his bottom lip bitten pink.

“That’s why I said we should go inside. I’m thinking of you, Eds,” says Richie, pinching Eddie’s cheek lightly. Eddie barely even bats him away. Stan feels proud, in an odd way.

The journey into the house is a blur – Stan can’t even remember it, honestly, only remembers that he kisses two other people on the way to the living room, and then Bill’s the one who presses him gently against a doorframe. The doorframe leading into the kitchen, Stan notices when he tilts his head back against it to breathe again. He keeps getting lightheaded from not breathing while he’s being kissed.

“H-Hi,” Bill whispers, lovely, pressing a kiss against Stan’s jaw. Stan wants him to bite down, bruise him, knows that Bill would never unless Stan asked him to. 

Maybe next time, Stan decides, tipping his head down to press his lips against Bill’s. When his eyes next drift open, Richie’s not wearing a shirt anymore, and Eddie is using the belt loops on Richie’s new pants to pull him into a kiss while Mike presses against Richie’s back, kissing the side of his neck. Bev is sat in Ben’s lap on the couch, and Ben’s hand has disappeared up her skirt, her top flung over the back of the cushion. 

The thing that had shifted earlier in Stan’s brain hums happily. This is how it’s supposed to be. All of them together. He couldn’t have imagined it any better than this.


End file.
